


In Which Spot is the King of his Castle™

by feathertail, FeralCreed



Series: RP Fics [6]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: First Meeting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 18:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12777318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathertail/pseuds/feathertail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: The mouthy Manhattan newsie Spot caught on his turf certainly has... spunk.12/7/18 This story will no longer be continued.





	In Which Spot is the King of his Castle™

Antonio "Racetrack" Higgins was first brought to Spot Conlon's attention when some of his birds reported a Manhattan newsie selling at the Sheepshead Racetrack. Now, sort of fair enough, he knew none of his boys sold there, but still... Sheepshead was Brooklyn territory, and therefore out of bounds for any other newsie. That was why he'd sent a couple of his most intimidating boys to catch him, just after he finished selling, and bring him here, to face the King of Brooklyn.  
  
Spot knew he looked intimidating, his red shirt was sleeveless and showing off bulging arm muscles, and he was built everywhere else, so it more than made up for his lack of stature. He had his arms folded and glare fixed on the Manhattan newsie in question as his boys brought him in. He had some of his more trusted boys flanking him, and it also helped that they were pretty built too.  
  
"So, what's a Manhattan newsie doin' on Brooklyn turf?" he asked, once the commotion had died down, one eyebrow raised. "An' more to the poin', what's a Manhattan newsie doin' sellin' on Brooklyn turf, ah?" He stared at Race, waiting for an answer.  
  
"What's a Brooklyn newsie doin' not usin' Brooklyn turf?" Race replied easily, grinning at the Brooklyn King. He had both hands in his pockets, trademark cigar in his mouth, and really didn't look as concerned as he probably should considering he was standing surrounded by angry newsies.  
  
"Now, I wouldn't steal from one of your boys. You guys gotta good thing goin', and hell, we all know that there ain't no reason for Brooklyn and Manhattan to be at each other." Such a thing would only cause strife and trouble, and Race wasn't particularly keen on either of those if he didn't know how things were going to end up. War between two of the boroughs was more trouble than any one spot was worth.  
  
"So tell me, Brooklyn, why's it such a big deal that a kid like me's puttin' an abandoned territory to good use? We're all tryin' to make a few extra pennies sellin' papes, ain't like Brooklyn's hurtin' for people to sell to." Neither was Manhattan, but Race moving out of that territory left a better opening for his other mates.  
  
"'S none of yous's business what turf we's using," Spot returned, taking a step forwards. "So long as it's in our boundaries, we's got free pickin' and choosin'. We don' wanna sell at Sheepshead, we don' wanna sell at Sheepshead, end of, Manhattan."  
  
He raised an eyebrow as the kid continued to challenge him. He had guts, he had to give it to him. "Yous is wantin' to sell on my turf, you asks me. Yous come here, and you says yous piece, an' then I decide to lets yous 'put it to good use'. Is yous aware of what we does to scabbers an' trespassers?"  
He paused for emphasis, but apparently one of his boys decided to answer the question for the Manhattan newsie, yelling, "We soaks 'em!"  
With a minute tilt of his head usually not perceptible to outsiders, Spot dismissed his subjects, and then it was the two of them left alone in the room.  
  
"Yous seems like a nice kid," Spot started. "I don' wanna soak yous. It might start some unrest, an' as King, I can' be havin' that, yous understands. The ascension of one King requires the demise of the previous, so I'm sure yous can get that. But, if yous continues selling at Sheepshead without permission, I gots no choice. So..." he shifted his weight on his feet. "Yous has got two choices. Yous can go back to Manhattan, where yous belong. Or, yous can ask to stay at Sheepshead, and convince me why yous should, an' why I shouldn't send one of my boys to sell there instead."  
  
"Course it ain't," Race agreed easily. "Hell, I ain't a Brooklyn newsie. But if it ain't gettin' used, seems a shame to just leave it there with nothin' happenin', don' it?" Or at least that was his thinking, and he certainly made all right money on a turf that had been empty for so long. Seemed like people liked being able to get a paper there.  
  
He raised an eyebrow when one of the Brooklyn newsies decided to answer what he was pretty sure had been a rhetorical question. The room was cleared at what he presumed was a signal, though he'd be damned if he could tell what it was. And then the King of Brooklyn was talking to him and Race decided that he was going to be able to take advantage of this and get somewhere, if he managed to keep his head on his shoulders and say the right things. Chances were he would manage to do it if he was maybe a little bit tactful... but tact hadn't ever been a strong suit of his.  
  
"First of all, I am a nice kid, so thanks for noticing that about me. It's always great to be appreciated. Second, you would've sent one of your own to sell there before now if you wanted to, so I think I gotta pretty good chance at this convincin' business. Ain't no reason for you to be causin' shit over someone pickin' up somethin' you don't want, that I can see." Which was probably a little more challenging than he should be, even though he'd clearly established himself to be a little brat who had no problem talking back to the King of Brooklyn. He gave Spot a confident grin and started to make his case.  
  
"So you need reasons for me to stay at Sheepshead. You ain't doing anyone any favours with havin' a hole in your territory where nobody sells. It's dead space. And if somethin' happens out there, it'll take longer for you to figure out what it is. If I'm on Brooklyn turf and somethin' happens, I run word to you before I skedaddle back to Kelly.  
  
"Plus you're helping out a kid from Manhattan, so if something happens, you got us on your side no matter what, cause we got a person on your turf. Makes us a little bit responsible for keeping the whole place safe, an' if I make friends, our people got a personal reason to show up an' help. Manhattan King's a friend of mine, I got pull. You need somethin', I can make a case for you.  
  
"And the better things are between the two of us, better it is in the whole city. We put Brooklyn and Manhattan together, the other three boroughs'll get behind us in anything. Kelly ain't gonna ask to stick a bunch of Manhattan newsies in Brooklyn, he knows how to be reasonable. And I bet you do too. I bet you know how to make a power play by doin' something' as simple as lettin' a single kid on your turf."  
  
Race shrugged, his case made. "I put my cash down on you bein' smart as hell, Conlon. Am I gonna lose my money?"  
  
Spot was surprised again and again by the audacity, almost cheek, of this kid, and how he challenged the King of Brooklyn, especially when he was surrounded by a dozen or more newsies who could soak him without breaking a sweat. That was almost Brooklyn guts, that.  
  
He listened carefully to the Manhattan newsie, and to be fair, he made good points. He stayed quiet for a few moments, just looking at Race, thinking, resting glare in full effect. Then, after a while, he spoke.  
  
"There's conditions to sellin' on Brooklyn turf, Manhattan or no. Yous wants to sell 'ere, yous gots to abide by 'em rules.  
One, yous is under my protection while yous sells 'ere, gots that? As King, I makes sure everyone gets 'nough to eat an' sleep. So, when yous is done wit' yous sellin', yous comes to me, tells me what sellin' was like, how much cash yous made, an' if yous's spotted anythin' like trespassers or scabbers or there's been trouble on your spot. You tells me, yes?  
Two, yous don' cause no trouble 'ere. Yous comes to sell at Sheepshead. Now, I'll stop my boys if theys protestin', but yous don' pick no fights or cause no trouble while yous is here, otherwise yous is bein' kicked back over to Manhattan.  
Three, yous tells Kelly 'zactly what I's is doin' for him an' you. I's ain't havin' no dispute about it later.  
An' four, while's yous is here, yous is listenin' to me, respectin' me, I's yous's Jack Kelly. I's yous's King here."  
  
He unfolded his arms and spat in his hand, sticking it out. "So. We's have a deal?"  
  
Honestly, the resting glare sort of gave him pause, though Race did his best not to show it. Instead he offered the king a grin, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he waited for Spot to make a decision. And come to a decision the Brooklyn king did, even one in his favour.  
  
Race's grin widened at that, nodding every so often to show he was listening and giving an answering "yes" where appropriate. When it came to shaking on it, he mimicked Spot's actions and shook on it. "Pleasure being under ya," he said, glancing up and down the king's body to add a double meaning to his words. "Anything you need, let me know."  
  
Spot resisted the urge to snort at the kid and simply raised an eyebrow, definitely not subtly flexing and making himself stand out just a little bit more once he noticed where Race's eyes were trailing, keeping a firm grip on their shake.  
  
"Well, you's ain't abided by condition one of yous's contract today," he drawled after a minute. "You tells me how your day was, today." Then, after he was done, he'd call all the boys out to the courtyard so he could address them, tell them that Race was here on permission, and that he was honorary Brooklyn while he was on their turf, and if a Brooklyn newsie touched their own, there was trouble.  
  
Race raised an eyebrow back, grinning at Spot unashamedly. "I like a firm grip," he commented at the handshake, leaving it to the king to decipher how he meant those words. And it seemed, unless his eyes deceived him, that Spot Conlon didn't exactly mind it all. He might have even been flexing a little, and wasn't that interesting. King of Brooklyn giving him time of day? How interesting.  
  
"Haven't I?" he drawled. And then Spot pointed out the specific part of his contract that he'd neglected. "Selling was all right. It was slow, first coupla days, people didn't know they could get a pape there. But it's all right now, I'm making enough to feed myself, anyway. Ain't gonna be rich, but what newsie is?"  
  
He smiled at his own joke, then shrugged. "It's a fair spot. Makes me about as much as a spot in Manhattan would but leaves more territory open for my boys. Works out for the benefit of everyone, don't'cha think?"  
  
"Nothin' worse than a limp'un," Spot returned, upping the challenge almost as he refolded his arms, staring at Race, waiting for the Manhattan newsie's next move.  
  
He nodded along with Race's details, it was what he'd expected. "An' if yous has a bad day's sellin', yous comes to me. No 'xcuses, I's not havin' you starvin'."  
  
He inclined his head again at Race's question. "Would'a been even better if you'd'a asked permission before comin' to sell, yous wouldn't'a had'ta go hungry those first two days." Because undoubtedly he did, starting a new spot was always hard, especially one that hadn't been used for so long.  
  
He gestured for Race to follow him, now, as he stalked towards the door, and then up a set of steps to an outside balcony over a courtyard. He whistled shrilly, the sound carrying easily and penetrating the surrounding buildings. Newsies began to pour from said buildings, assembling in the square, looking up at Spot and Race, talking amongst themselves. Spot waited patiently for the last few stragglers to trail in, then jerked his hands in a motion for silence, and the square fell silent.  
  
He gestured for Race to step forward. "This's Racetrack. He's's here on my permissions, he's sellin' at Sheepshead. As long as he's's here, yous is to treat him as Brooklyn, yous understands me? If I's to understands any of yous's hurt Brooklyn, yous is in for a soakin'. Brooklyn don't hurt Brooklyn! Make sure everyones who ain't here understands this. There ain't no excuse for soakin' Racetrack on our turf. Yous understands me?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and descended from the platform, gesturing for Race to follow.  
  
"Reckon you'd know," Race said with a challenging grin. "But if you wanna hang around a Manhattan card game, I'll keep the boys from teasing ya. Can't have my new king getting an earful... so long's you wanna come." His tone very much insinuated that Spot would be a chicken if he didn't show.  
  
He nodded as Spot told him he wouldn't be left to starve. "Figured," he said, not bothering to hide his expectations. "Newsies always go hungry, starting a new spot," he said with a shrug. "Ended up being worth it in the end." Whether that was taken as a double entendre or not was up to the king.  
  
He stood behind Spot quietly as the king spoke to his subjects. When silently told to follow, he did, with chin held high and a swagger in his step that showed he was afraid of nobody there. Perhaps a bit cocky, but he hardly felt his confidence was misplaced.  
  
"I've experienced a fair few in my time, is yous the latest?" Spot returned dryly, letting his eyes graze quickly up and down the taller newsie. After a long while's consideration, he shifted his weight. "I'll come, but I's ain't playin', an' I's comin' to chat with Kelly. I's watchin', not playin', Racetrack. I don't play no card games."  
  
"Woulda been worth it ta start with, if yous'd come to me to start with," he returned. "But no more talkin' on it. It's done."  
  
Race's actions as he followed Spot were a bit rash, in his opinion, but a bold statement, one Brooklyn newsies would appreciate. He paused outside the building doors, leaning on the door jamb. "So, is yous headed back to Manhattan now...?" he asked, trailing off subtly at the end, so an invitation could only be seen if one was looking for it.  
  
"Not at all," Race answered confidently. He shrugged at Spot's repeated insistence that he would be there to watch and talk only, and not to play. Newsies would talk no matter what, might as well be about something as minor as the Brooklyn King not wanting to play cards on his rare visit. "D'ya play other kinds of games?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"I dunno," he said when Spot asked if he was going back to Manhattan. "You got something here that'd be more interesting for me?" He was willing to make it a challenge, a question where the other boy would have to meet him halfway. He wasn't sure if he was reading Spot the right way, and you could never be too careful. But he'd be very willing to be right in this situation.  
  
"Rarely," Spot answered dismissively as Race asked if he played other kinds of games. "I don't bet. I don't gamble. I don't get in debt." If there was one thing he hated above most other things, it was knowing he owed someone something. That was why he went out of his way to avoid being in debt to someone. Now, people being in his debt, that he liked. Tremendously.  
  
He raised an eyebrow at the Manhattan newsie's query, almost challenge. "Depends what you find interesting," he answered cryptically, then opened the door to the lodging house, slipping inside. If Race was as up for it as he pretended, he could follow Spot up the storeys to the attic room, his private room, one few people saw, the only room save the bathrooms with a lock. Brooklyn King needed his privacy, after all. If not, he'd be quite content going through his earnings for the day, squirreling away a portion before handing over some coins to a younger newsie to go and get supper for him.  
  
Spot's views on games were interesting. Race cared far less himself about, well, anything. If he had a mother still, she'd yell at him for recklessness. Jack had come close a couple times, he was sure if it, but nothing had happened yet.  
  
The answer he got interested him enough into following. Of course, he glanced around here and there, but most of his attention was on Spot. "Am I being welcomed to the king's castle?" he asked, half teasing and half genuinely curious.  
  
Spot snorted. "Ain't a castle, Racetrack. But in the essence't it's where I's livin', sure yous can call it that." He continued climbing the stairs, past the lodging levels for his newsies, a greater amount by far compared to the other boroughs.  
  
Then, the stairs started to get narrow, and while they weren't as worn and squeaky as the ones all the boys thundered down in the morning, they didn't exactly feel secure either. But Spot was used to it, and padded up, touching the handrail only once at a sharp turn. When he reached the top, he paused in front of the wooden door. "Yous still alive?" He smirked. Most visitors (not that there were many) were half dead by the time they reached Spot's room.  
  
Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He kicked off his shoes before stepping into a threadbare rug, shooting a look at Race to make sure he did the same. He crossed the room to close the shutters to his window, tugging the grubby excuse for a towel inside from where it had been slung out the window across the sill. He threw it across the room, smirking as it landed over the box that housed his personal possessions.  
  
He padded back to the door, slipping easily behind Race. Somehow, in the tiny difference of having no shoes made him seem less intimidating, if only slightly. He slid the bolt across with a sharp, heavy _thunk_. "Nothing leaves this room, got it?" he demanded harshly.  
  
"Definitely a castle," Race decided. The king and his castle, the thought amused him. Jack would roll his eyes at him for it, but Jack wasn't here, so win!  
  
"Holy shit, how many stairs do you need?" he replied. Race was by no means out of shape, but seriously. Highest tower of the castle, indeed, Race almost expected to be faced with a dragon and a princess.  
  
Instead he took his shoes off (really?) and looked around with undisguised curiosity. "If nothing includes me, then I sure hope you're gonna feed me something," he teased. "But yeah, I got it."  
  
Spot hopped up onto his bunk, and jumped up into the rafters, standing on a beam as he reached up to slide a metal sheet over a hole in the roof through which he usually watched the stars.  
  
Swinging down again, he landed neatly on his feet, watching Race the whole time, then stepped down so he was sat on the mattress, legs splayed wide. He stared at Race and, still not saying a word, raised an eyebrow.  
  
Race watched a further set of acrobatics, still puzzled and clueless as to what the hell Spot had brought him up here for. Wasn't there a hundred other places that they could have had a private conversation, instead of his being dragged all the way up here to talk about things? He didn't get the point of being half murdered on the stairs just for Spot to be covering up all the windows...  
  
Until Spot sat down. That was when the lightbulb came on. Race was more than okay with how things were changing, and moved forward until he was standing between Spot's knees. Then he kissed him, shy and halting at first before he got a little bolder. His hands came up to rest lightly on Spot's stomach between them, unsure of where the boundaries were but willing to push them now.


End file.
